


How Fast You Were Going

by bumblefuck



Series: Gifting [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-05
Updated: 2010-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bumblefuck/pseuds/bumblefuck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A meeting.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Fast You Were Going

It's the '70s.

March 31st, 1973, to be exact, and Gabriel hates it. Gabriel hates the entire ten years. It's an ugly decade, from the clothes to the music to the hairstyles. He knows it gets better, of course – the '80s were a blast, all that dancing and the parties and the bright, obnoxious colours – but he's so, so glad he's just visiting.

He's waiting, now, sitting in a police cruiser on a street corner in Lawrence with his eyes hidden behind dark aviator shades and his boredom definitely _not_ hidden in the sneering curl of his lip. He's not sure why he's here, exactly. Sure, there are plenty of reasons to be here, at this time, even though he's a few weeks early for the main event. He's just not sure which of those reasons are his.

He's fairly certain that whatever they are they have less to do with the actual events of 1973 and more to do with a stupidly tall man back in 2009 who has somehow managed to infect Gabriel's brain and made him want to get involved, to find things out, to learn him as well as he once knew the Word and the Host and Heaven itself.

 _We need your help,_ Sam had said, all earnestness and pleading. _Please._

This is the beginning. Gabriel wants to _see._

He just wishes the guy he's waiting for would get there a bit faster. He shifts in the uncomfortable seat and contents himself with how glad he is the uniform pants don't have flares. Then he would have to smite someone.

A screech of tires stirs him, and – _there_. And old pickup comes around the corner. It's only a couple of miles over the speed limit, but Gabriel flicks on his siren and gives chase.

The guy in the truck pulls over quickly, tyres scraping too close against the kerb, and Gabriel climbs out of the cruiser and walks slowly up the driver's side window, thumbs thrust through his belt loops.

"What seems to be the problem, officer?" the guy says, and Gabriel almost laughs.

"Licence and registration, please," he says, in a tone stolen from every cop show he's ever seen, and the documents are pulled out grudgingly and thrust into the archangel's hands.

The licence reads _Samuel Campbell._

Now that he has them Gabriel has no clue what to actually do with them, so he makes a show of looking at them intently while secretly studying Samuel through his sunglasses.

 _So this is Sam's granddaddy,_ he thinks.

He's bald, and old, and looking a bit shabby to Gabriel's eye. Gabriel expected him to be taller – Sam (Winchester, the Sam he knows) must get his height from John's side of the family, because while this Samuel is certainly no shrimp he sure as hell isn't the giant the other Sam has grown into.

There are similarities, though he can't put his finger on them. Something about the eyes, maybe. They aren't the same colour – Campbell's a deep brown where Sam's are a warm hazel – but there's something there nonetheless.

Maybe it's the bitchfacing. Samuel Campbell could give his namesake a run for his money with the magnificent scowl he's giving Gabriel right now. It makes Gabriel smile, which makes the frown get deeper.

"You know how fast you were going?" he says, and the Samuel in front of him gives him a raised eyebrow and a Glare of Death that makes Gabriel see shades of the Sam he is most familiar with, and the archangel decides he rather likes him.

That doesn't mean he gets off scot free, though. Gabriel _was_ the angel of justice after all.

"Alright," Gabriel says, smirking from behind his shades, "I'm gonna write you a ticket." The man accepts it with rather more grace that Gabriel had expected, though he does skewer Gabriel with one of the most piercing, evil looks he has ever received in his eons of existence. Then he looks down and reads the ticket and huffs.

"You sure you don't wear those glasses because you're blind?" Samuel says. "My name's Campbell. Not Winchester."

Gabriel takes the ticket back from him, and sure enough it says in his big, messy scrawl, _Samuel Winchester._ He looks at it for a long moment, then slips it into the pocket of his jacket.

He'll think about what that means later.

Samuel _Campbell_ cocks a haughty eyebrow at him, and Gabriel sniffs, thoroughly unimpressed, and writes him another one. He takes care to actually look at what he's writing this time.

He tears the paper off the pad roughly and says, "You be careful there, Mr Campbell." He's not just talking about driving. "Don't let me catch you again."

"I won't," Samuel mutters, and drives off in his battered old truck.

 _What a shame,_ the archangel thinks, _that he'll be dead in a month._

He shakes his head and, having seen all he wanted to, snaps his fingers, disappearing to a time when they don't think Sonny and Cher are the height of cool.

He'll be back, of course, in a month – hidden behind layers of magic and sigils (and perhaps a tree). And maybe he lied. Maybe he does know exactly why he's here.

But if he's going to help, he's going to know exactly what he's getting into.


End file.
